There was truth in what he said. Batiscombe ought to have let Marcantonio know his whereabouts, it was the least a brave man could do, and Batiscombe was undeniably brave. Diana felt a sharp sense of pain; the idea that her brother was hunting down with detectives, like a common malefactor, the man who had once loved her so well—the idea that she was helping to find him in order that Marcantonio might kill him if he could—it was frightful to her. She was bitterly atoning for one innocent girlish fancy of long ago.
"Marcantonio," she said, almost entreatingly, "do not do it. Give up the police. I am sure he will meet you without that"—
"Ah yes!" he interrupted, "you know him. Of course you will not help me! I forgot that you were come to shield him,—you—I know you will not help me!"
He spoke fiercely and brutally, as he had never spoken to her before. But mad or not mad, Diana would not submit to such words from any one. She turned white, and faced him in the light of the two great lamps that burned on the table. The whole power and splendid force of her nature gleamed in her eyes, and thrilled in the low, distinct tones of her voice.
"What you say is utterly base, and ignoble, and untrue," she said slowly.
He hung his head, for he knew he was wrong. He did not know what he said; indeed he had hardly known what he was doing all that day.
"I am sorry, Diana," he said, at last, quite humbly. "I am not myself to-day."
Her anger melted away instantly. Himself! No indeed, poor fellow, he was not himself, and perhaps never would be his old self again. He was so utterly wretched as he stood there before her with his head bent and his hands clasped together, so forlorn and forsaken and pitiful, the moment the sustaining force of his anger left him, that no human creature could have seen him without giving him all sympathy and comfort. Diana went close to him and put her arms about him, and kissed him, and her tears wet his cheek. He suffered her to lead him quietly away to his rooms, and she left him in the care of his faithful old servant.
"The signore is ill," she said. "Some one must watch in the outer room all night, in case he wants anything."
Diana herself was exhausted, in spite of her strength and extraordinary nerve. There were times when she broke down, as she had done at Sorrento when she heard Julius and Leonora outside her window, but it was always after the struggle was over, when she was alone. Moreover she had the advantage of a perfectly serene past life, during which no serious trouble had come near her, and her strength had increased with her maturity. It all stood her in good stead now, and helped her to bear what she had to suffer. She went to bed and slept a dreamless sleep which completely restored her. It is the privilege of very calm and evenly balanced natures to take rest when it can be had, and to bear wakefulness and fatigue better in the long run than extremely active and physically energetic people.